Hate
by The Qilin
Summary: Cross/Anita. NSFW. Oneshot. Complete. "Do you hate me?" he asked her before. Her reply is always yes. She does. She really does. But not in the typical way of hating.


_Characters: Cross/Anita_

_Warnings: Sex? Yeah, sex._

_Author's Note: This story asked to be dark and sad. I could not say no._

_There are POV switches. The order is Cross – Anita._

* * *

**Hate**

No one in the Order has it harder than the Exorcists. They were the hands and feet of the Order, the ones that moved. The ones that were injured. The ones that fell. The ones that could be replaced, yet were still irreplaceable. Time moves, and they grew smaller in number and greater in danger. Danger? The Order, an organization dedicated to fighting evil? Being desperate will do that. Experiment after experiment. Death after death. The only people more expendable were the Finders, who had it pretty hard as well and were the most underappreciated part of the Order. Even the scientists are valued higher, as are the medical teams.

Then who is the group that is almost never considered? The supporters. Patrons, one could call them. Often they were rich. Often they believed they were helping the work of God. The Church is never short of money, anyway. The supporters are one reason they're surviving.

And so Cross gets some of his money this way. He is stylish and dangerous. Women are attracted to his attitude. Men quietly seethe in jealousy. He is well aware of how conspicuous he is, and he likes it. Level Two and higher Akuma stay away from him; they leave the stupid Level Ones for him to easily take down.

It also helps he has the most patrons. How else do you think he pays for nearly everything (damn, he really needs an apprentice to shove everything onto)?

He does not count the number of people who have fallen in love with him. Male and female alike, they come to him and he treats them to a very good time, to say the least.

He does count the number of people he has fallen in love with.

They number in five.

So what is the sort of woman that Cross likes? Confident women. Experienced women. Vocal women. Yet he also likes the shy ones. The innocent ones. The silent ones. He doesn't really have a type.

He sleeps with the beautiful ones. Sometimes it is a lady with too much make-up. One time it was a slip of a girl with a birthmark on her face. What mattered about them is that they believed themselves to be beautiful, and he accepts that. It is stupid to keep count of the number of people he has laid with, so he doesn't. But he really does remember the beautiful ones, the ones that dare him.

The ones he liked were those who were unafraid to look him in the eye when they spoke to him.

Anita always did.

He once asked her why her mother named her Anita. Hardly a Chinese name; it had European roots.

She replies that her mother found it in a book and was so charmed by it that she bestowed it upon her daughter. She does not know what it means.

Cross looks it up for her; Anita is a diminutive of Ana, then Anna, then finally Hannah, and meant "grace" or "favor." He tells her it suits her, as he traces her chin while she looks, unsmiling, up at him.

She did not love him at first. In fact, the first time he visited her, years after sleeping with her mother (yes, he made sure she wasn't some illegitimate child of her. He has his own set of morals), she almost turned him down until he spent the whole night outside the door and dealt with some people who had been bothering her place for weeks. He even let Mahoja punch him in the chin before she finally let him in.

He visits once a month. She says little. They talk about ordinary things, about the Order. She never asks him about his mother, even though he's more than willing to tell her about the mother she'd lost.

They were dancing a careful dance; intimacy was allowed, but not held for long. She does not stay in his grasp. She is elusive and does not seem to fall for his charms.

He is undaunted.

He once asks if she hates him.

Her reply is quick. Yes, she does.

He tells her she'll be a good woman.

She brushes him off.

**_-|||:|||-_**

There is no need to tell of what Anita does. She is a prostitute. What does that say about her? That she is paid to entertain whomever has paid. She is thankful she has inherited from her mother, and that there are no men who tell her what she can or can do. And she has Mahoja, who is better than any guards.

She understands men very well. Many send her gifts. Many admire her. Many have asked her to marry them. She politely declines all. She knows a body well, better than some know their own bodies. She is rich (and Cross comes too often borrowing money) and in good health. She is beautiful and expensive and has respect (or as much respect that can be paid to women of her profession). She has only received two death threats, which have both been dealt with. She supports The Church, and while they disapprove of her profession, they do not turn her away.

Anita ought to be happy.

If not for that _man_. Cross comes and goes. He is…unforgettable. In appearance and in bed. He both pays and takes money. He drinks and smokes and it takes hours to air out the rooms. He can joke, but at the same time say things that make her run hot.

Her mother fell for him and she can see why. There would be something wrong if you didn't feel a thing for him.

Even she.

She ignores it, because what can he even do for her? The Great General Cross Marian of the Black Order is not bound to her in any way.

And yet she wonders why she is irritably upset when he does not show up for nearly a year.

"I thought you hated me," he says when she steps on his foot with a sharp heel upon arriving. He doesn't even wince.

"I still do. But it is annoying to keep track of people who have a tendency to disappear without saying anything."

"My sincerest apologies." He kisses the back of her hand and hands her a box.

"Don't think that you can buy me with things like this."

His lips brush against her cheek. "They're merely a gift."

She opens the box to find a pair of very fine, delicate gold earrings. Earrings that she has wanted for a while.

He remembered their time together in Russia.

"Thank you." Flatly, to hide how she is affected by his gesture. He offers his arm, and they walk in, arms linked. She keeps her back straight and head high.

"So proud and fine."

"I always am."

"Even more so, after such a long time. You have grown."

"And you have grown thinner." She has noticed the slight hollowness in his cheeks.

"Fighting a war does that to you."

"And how is that going? We hear news and it is always grim."

"It is how it has always been. The Order will continue to live on."

"Do you ever retire?"

Cross laughs. "Only in death. We aren't as fortunate as you ordinary people."

"I am hardly an ordinary woman."

"No, you are not." He stops and tugs her so that they face each other. "I think your mother would be proud of you."

"I would not know." How could she? She was eighteen when her mother died from an Akuma attack. She is now twenty-seven. Nine years, and her mother carried many secrets to her grave.

"She would be," Cross repeats. "There's nothing she wouldn't be proud of in you."

_Really_. "Do you mean that? Or are you just saying that to please me?"

"Both."

"Men like you are men that I never trust."

"I'm hurt." He rubs the inside of her wrist, where her skin is very smooth. "Do you still hate me?"

"What do you think?" Bells that are woven into her headdress tinkle as she turns her head.

"I don't think you ever hated it. More of a dislike for what I do."

"What you do is none of my business."

"Anita." He always rolls her name over his tongue too slowly. But she grudgingly likes how he says it, for most people here do not pronounce her name right. "What if I told you that you're special?"

Anita is unmoved. "What about hundreds of others that you have said that to?"

"I say it only because they asked me. But you," he catches her chin in his hand, "you have never asked me."

No, she never did. "I have never needed another person to tell me that I am special."

"Of course. But everyone likes hearing it."

"Coming from you?"

"Yes, coming from me."

"I suppose I could say you are special in that you are my most frequent guest."

With his hand on her chin, she can feel the vibrations when he laughs. "That's good."

"Is that really something to be proud of?"

"Why not?"

"Cross Marian, you are very strange man."

"Only to some. You're special because you don't seem to ever fall for my charms."

"One cannot charm the whole world."

"I try my damn best." She surmises that he will kiss after this statement, and she is right. A pair of hands grip her shoulders. She breathes in alcohol and cigarettes—the expensive kind—and cologne. Unlike some of the people she has had to service, he does not push heedlessly. His lips are deliberate and unhurried, for he knows what he likes, wants, and will get. He takes his time. She responds accordingly, their tongues pressing against each other. Fabric rustles; without her realising, he has untied her belt and her robe falls down against her feet, leaving her in stockings.

Anita pulls his gloves off, and works open his coat. These Order uniforms always had so many buttons and clasps, which she has long memorized from her time before with him. At least his shirt is easier. He rolls his shoulders when she is done, and then she can slip her hand against firm chest muscles.

"You really are thinner," she says when they pull apart.

"Taking care of a brat will do that to you."

"You had an apprentice, then." She rests the palms of her hands over his ribs, splaying her fingers.

"Sent him off to the Order and now he's trying to find me," He cups her breasts and bends his head. "He'll be fine because I was a good master."

Somehow, she doubts this, but his mouth is doing more interesting things than talking. This is another thing that sets him apart. He doesn't only take his pleasure; the other party has a share as well. And what a share it is. She finds herself leaning into him for support as his tongue circles an areola and teeth tease at a nipple. Her own hands are busy with his belt and loosening his pants. Shoes are shed and he pulls away to let her take down her elaborate headdress that is woven into her hair, while he strips. They move systematically, having done this so many times.

_Click, click_. Strings of beats clatter as she sets the heavy piece down and shakes out her long hair. It hangs down to the back of her knees like a curtain. When he lays her hair, he lifts her hair from her neck in one large sweep, arranging it neatly next to hair.

"What if I told you something else?"

"I have heard everything possible." Her legs part to let his hand dip between her thighs. He rubs the skin there, warming it and leaving tingling sensations in their wake. "Even proclamations of love from some of those fools."

"And if I said I love you like no other?"

She laughs. She actually laughs in a way she has not laughed for a long time. She laughs until there are tears in her eyes and her sides ache, while he only looks at her.

"Goodness, if I had known that would make you laugh, I should've said it earlier."

"I didn't think you're capable of loving." Anita wipes her eyes. "Cross Marian, loving me?"

"I'm human and human fall prey to emotions."

"This is…" she tries to find the right word in English to express how she feels, and cannot find one. "I did not think you would say such a thing."

"So you don't believe me."

"Should I?"

Cross lifts a shoulder in a shrug, and he slides a finger down her crotch from top to bottom. She sighs as pleasant sensations travel through her.

"Have you ever believed me?"

"Maybe."

"Maybe you should."

"Maybe you should stop talking and—" She gasps and grips her bedsheets as he slips a finger in. "Why do I let you visit?"

"Because you find me irresistible." He smiles, while twisting his finger. Dampness clings to her. He must be playing at something. But two can play at a game, and she lifts herself up, to cup his erection with one hand and begin to rub it.

"No, you find _me_ irresistible."

"That too." He adds a finger, and she tightens her leg muscles to keep from shivering. "Anita."

"Yes?"

"I really do love you." He removes his fingers and gently moves hers away. Placing his hands on either side of her side, he lowers his hips until the tip of his erection touches her entrance. She tilts herself upwards to let him dip in. Usually at this point, she closes her eyes, or looks up at the ceiling, or looks somewhere else. Most people didn't like it if you looked them in the eye.

But Cross pats her cheek. "Look at me," he says in Chinese. It is so compelling that she does. His face is ever hidden by the odd half-mask he wears, but the one eye that she can see burns in its intensity.

He rocks against her, their gazes locked. This is new. He has never asked to look at her. That eye feels as if it were searching her soul, holding her there, while it sorts her out. Yet at the same time, she can look into his soul.

It's a heavy one. Heavier than he lets on. It is buried underneath all that wine and tobacco, and the love of sex, but Cross Marian is not as unburdened as some might think. He is worrying about something. He is tired. But despite that, there is a love towards her that she can tell. Even his actions. He moves slowly, not roughly at all. Every roll of hips is calculated and meant to take her higher. His hands massage her breasts while his mouth kisses her everywhere else. She is being appreciated. She is not just someone he seeks for sexual relief.

This is making love.

And her body is responding. She grips his forearms, then his shoulders, and finally his waist. She wraps her legs around his back to keep him there. They undulate together. The dance has changed, and for the first time, the intimacy is all about knowing the other person.

They are still looking into each other's eyes, the contact unbroken as they move as one. Anita has never felt this intensity before. There is no reference point, no experience. Yet they know what they are doing.

He comes first, and amazingly all the way to the end, his pace has neither slowed nor quickened. A thumb over her clitoris helps her reach climax as well. Their gazes have not broken. She feels boneless and a little muted even as he pulls out and they finally are not looking at each other.

Thankfully, he's got enough sense to not say "I told you so" to her. She can still hear it in her mind.

"…I am not the first person you loved." Her throat is dry and so her voice cracks a little.

"No, you are not. But you are the only person alive right now that I love."

"Am I supposed to be touched?"

"You can feel however you want to." He seems unperturbed by her answers.

She has a good guess why. Cross Marian has no self-esteem problems. Whether anyone likes or does not like him, it is like water off a duck's back. He admits what he wants, and takes rejection graciously. Was there ever man like him.

Cross pulls the blankets over them both, then lights up a cigarette. "I'm going to Edo."

"Edo? But there is nothing there."

"I have plans that I need to carry out."

"You want to borrow a ship and crew from me."

"Yes."

"It will cost you."

"Done."

She frowns. "Those that go do not return."

"I always return, Anita." He exhales a thin stream of smoke, and then looks at her. "Worried?"

"A little."

"So you do care."

"I could be losing my steadiest customer," she easily counteracts.

"I don't die easily."

"Maybe I should go. I know the seas."

"No."

"I'm not weak."

Cross brushes her hair away from her face. "I didn't say you were. But if someone goes with me, whose going to wait for me to come back?"

This surprises her. He's not sentimental; if he tries to be, she suspects him of trying to appeal to her emotions. Yet, he is not teasing. His tone of voice is frank.

He cares about her.

Genuinely so.

Anita says nothing at first, but draws him closer so that her head is pillowed on his chest. "I hate you."

"Good. I wouldn't have it any other way."

It's only when they fall asleep that she realizes she might understand, just a little better, how her mother felt about him. Something tells her that Cross will outlive her, that she will not be the last person he loves. Cross had been her mother's strength, and unknowingly, hers as well.

What a man. What a sneaky bastard of a man, creeping into her life and in her bed.

* * *

_Thank you for reading._


End file.
